


existing, only slightly to the left

by genusaurelia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Quest: Protect Clan Lavellan, Hurt/Comfort, things go bad and lavellan is sad, varric acts like a dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 01:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14125065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genusaurelia/pseuds/genusaurelia
Summary: ellana receives a letter with his keeper's handwriting and he wonders if there's something he could have done





	existing, only slightly to the left

**Author's Note:**

> i just love when (clenches fist) lavellan is sad.
> 
> also btw ellana is trans. irrelevant. do not be startled by he/him pronouns.
> 
> might fix the last part later. this was entirely self-indulgent.

_ Bandits are attacking clan Lavellan. _

The quickly woven script of his Keeper sours the berries and bread in his stomach. He clutches the edges of the parchment, his eyes trained on the urgent loops of Istimaethoriel’s signature. There’s a harsh pressure behind the whites of his eyes, a hard pit nestled in his throat. 

Ellana jolts from his seat, the pine of the chair scraping sharply against the cobblestone below. He barrels through the foyer. Orlesian merchants and Inquisition agents haphazardly step out of his path. Their mouths twist and contort, but they’re mute to Ellana’s ears. He’s pacing before he forms any cohesive thought. He hardly notices that his fingers are trembling. 

“Ellie, hey--” It’s Varric. “What’s going on? Hey, hold on--”

Varric’s thick fingers close around Ellana’s wrist. The dwarf keeps a tight grip until Ellana turns to look down at him. 

“I thought you were Cassandra when you came in,” Varric tells him, masked concern on his face. “You look like you’re about to kill someone.” 

“Just--I don’t have time--” Ellana isn’t breathing. “I can tell you later, I’m sorry--” 

His face is creased with worry, but the dwarf relents. Ellana nods to him and continues, making a beeline for his diplomat. He nearly crashes through the door, and stumbles as he reaches Josephine’s desk. The woman’s head jerks up from her notes, her quill fluttering to the floor as she bounces to her feet. 

“Inquisitor, what is it?” Josephine shrills. She only closely avoids spilling ink. “Are you in danger? What’s happened?” 

“It’s--oh Creators,” Ellana breathes, huffing as he braces his hands against Josephine’s desk. “I’m not in danger, I’m sorry. But someone else is--” 

“Has Skyhold been breached? What?” Josephine continues, her eyes lit with concern. “Please, tell me what’s happened.” 

“Summon the war council. Please,” Ellana responds, already heading towards the corridor. “We’re not in danger. My clan is.” 

He doesn’t give Josephine the opportunity to speak further as he exits toward the war room. Light spills in through the crystal windows as the noon sun settles against the sky. The light is warm, but all he can picture are the people of his clan, the children, the elders, his friends he left behind. Every passing minute is another that his clan has to endure, has to suffer, has to fight. He doesn’t want to fathom a doomed fate, he  _ can't  _ fathom it. The Inquisition tore him away from his clan, but he’s not prepared to witness their collapse. Not in his lifetime. Never. 

The behemoth doors open without hesitation. Ellana rushes to the table at the center of the room, biting onto his tongue. His eyes flit across the spread of the map. The lines and edges of landmarks blur together. He almost doesn't bite back the sounds building in his chest.

With a ragged cough, he finally places a hand over the scrawled lettering of the Free Marches. Ellana knows his clan is not a force to be trifled with--their hunters are skilled, eloquent, and deadly. The People are proud and stubborn. They wouldn't go down without burning their own fires, but he knows he can't afford to find hope in burning embers. His clan is in hot water.  _Really_  hot water. 

Fear boils against the walls of his stomach. 

“Inquisitor!” It’s Cassandra. Her voice is rough, accent thick and hard. “What has happened? Josephine told us--” 

“Get over here,” Ellana says firmly. “I apologize for my urgency. I will explain everything.” 

A tiny noise escapes the Seeker’s lips as she crosses the room. Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine follow closely behind, nearly stomping the heels of the woman’s boots. They gather on the opposing side of the table, eyes expectant. 

“Clan Lavellan is in danger,” Ellana shudders. He sticks a quaking fingernail between his teeth. “I got a letter from my Keeper.” 

Josephine is writing something with her quill. “When did you receive the message?” 

“Just today,” Ellana responds. He abandons his fingernail and bites his knuckle. “So it was probably written at least a couple days ago.”

“What kind of danger are we dealing with?” Cassandra asks, looming over the map. Her eyes squint, and heavy creases rest between her brow. 

“They, ah--” Ellana stumbles. “It’s bandits. We have plenty of hunters, but they’re becoming overwhelmed, so it’s… it’s somewhat of an emergency.” 

Cullen hums. He crosses his arms and scrunches his nose. “Where are they settled as of late?” 

“Here,” Ellana responds instantly, gesturing to the far-corner of the map. “They’re in an unclaimed valley near Wycome. The letter said they’re in a location with sparse rifts, so demons aren’t too much of a problem. Yet anyway.” 

Ellana’s voice is wavering, threatening to collapse. His war council’s eyes are on him, oppressive and waiting for answers he can hardly supply. He continues to weigh options in his head--how long it will take to reach them, how many men they’d need--that is, if they were still alive when they arrived. It’s terrifying. 

“Inquisitor, I may have a solution,” Josephine offers, her voice gentle. “The Duke of Wycome is a committed Inquisition ally. He may be able to help the Dalish, since they have settled so close to his city.” 

“Yes, yes, that could work,” Ellana sighs. His palms weigh heavily on the edges of the table. “What are my other options?” 

Leliana perks up. “You mentioned you have hunters. If they are being so easily overwhelmed, we may not be dealing with mere bandits. My skirmishers can harass their flanks and give your clan a chance to retreat safely while I uncover the truth.” 

Ellana nods at the suggestion. “You may be right. Cullen?” 

“I agree with Leliana,” Cullen chimes. “No simple bandits would attack a Dalish camp with such force. I can deploy my troops to provide them support.” 

That sounds like the wisest option--Ellana’s clan needs military support. With Inquisition troops on their side, his clan could easily overcome the bandit forces. Then again, how long would it take to deploy them?

“How quickly can--how quickly can your men get to my clan?” Ellana asks, still nursing wracking tremors. “We need to help them as soon as possible.” 

“We may be able to reach them in about a day’s time,” Cullen responds. “Less if we move quickly.” 

A day. In that time, they could die. They could be completely uprooted, driven away from one another. 

“J-Josie,” Ellana stutters. “How soon can you contact the Duke?” 

“I can send him a message before midday,” the diplomat tells him. “He can deploy his forces immediately if he agrees to the request.” 

That gave them time. The Duke was far closer to his clan. If he dispatched Culllen and the troops, they may not make it in time and they could lose resources and men along the way. The same for Leliana--her agents may arrive too late.  

Sweat drenches the area along Ellana’s brow. His ears burn and his heart races with feverish urgency. Decisions are never easy--deciding the fate of people is never easy. Somehow, Ellana always does it. He doesn’t always make the right decisions. He can accept that. 

But not this time. Not with his clan. They are his people, his family, his life. There is no room for wrong decisions. 

“Josephine,” Ellana decides, straightening his back. “Send a message to the Duke as soon as you can. My clan needs military forces and support.” 

“Right away, Inquisitor,” Josephine answers, already scrawling across her palette. “I will deliver correspondence when it arrives.” 

The woman tiptoes from the room, her steps rushed and scuttling. Cullen crosses to Ellana’s side of the table. He lays a hand on the elf’s shoulder and squeezes. Ellana quickly squashes the urge to flinch away. 

“If need be, I can still send troops,” Cullen whispers. “We’re going to help your clan, and we  _ will _ get them out in one piece.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Ellana breathes. “I will consult you if I need you.” 

Cullen nods. He spares Ellana some sort of glance--one that Ellana supposes is warm. Bright, maybe. Comforting. He squeezes once more and follows Josephine out the door.  The war room quiets when Ellana’s council files out. As the door shuts for the final time, Ellana collapses. He shrinks down to his knees, burrowing his face against open palms. Tears don’t come, only strained cries. 

Ellana holds his head and rocks. Back and forth, back and forth. Like he used to do when he got lost in the trees or that one time he watched a deer bleed out. Any semblance of composure disappeared behind the door with his council. He mumbles prayers in Elvish, his words garbled and phasing together. He asks for guidance, for safety--for the Creators to guard his people. Mythal, Andruil, Elgar’nan, Ghilan’nain, Falon’Din, Dirthamen, Sylaise, June. 

It’s an eternity before he moves again. The doors feel entirely larger when he opens them this time. Josephine only eyes him as he slugs through her office, one of his hands pressed flesh against his scalp. 

“Protect them,” he mumbles, numb. “Protect them, please.”

 

\--

_ I regret that my help for your Dalish allies came too late to be of use. _

Dead. Scattered. Broken. 

Josephine reads the letter aloud slowly, watching for any response from Ellana. Her eyes skitter between the parchment and Ellana’s gaze. The tension in the room is palpable and oppressive. 

When the last of the Duke’s words cross Josephine’s lips, she sets down the scroll tentatively. There’s a curtain of sorrow that looms over the woman’s figure. She slouches, and her hands twine into a strained knot at her chest. She looks as if she wants to speak, but nothing comes. 

“They’re gone, then,” Ellana says, resolute yet absent. “We didn’t get there in time.”

“I--er, yes,” Josephine mutters, shuffling her feet. “I am so sorry, Inquisitor. I thought I could--”

“It’s fine,” Ellana snaps, more hostile than he’d intended. “It isn’t your fault, you did all you could. Thank you.” 

He turns to leave. His breath snags in his throat when he tries to inhale. Josephine's expensive heels clack against the cobblestone behind him. It's a sound that Ellana normally likes. In the next moment, there’s a soft hand enclosing Ellana’s wrist. 

“It is alright to mourn, Ellana,” Josephine coos. “I can arrange a service for the…. Lost members, if you would like.” 

“I--possibly.” Ellana’s voice is hoarse. “I’ll keep you posted.” 

With that, he frees himself of the woman’s grip. She releases him without protest, but he feels the lingering tingle from her fingertips. Her concern only hurts, though he knows she means well. 

The foyer is thinning out as the sun disappears beyond the mountains. Varric is nowhere to be seen as Ellana ventures towards his quarters, to which he’s grateful. As much as he appreciates the dwarf’s efforts at comfort, he knows he wouldn’t be able to respond to them. 

His quarters are cold. He notices the open window and scowls at himself. A fire erupts in his fireplace with a wave of his hand, and he drops in front of it. 

Dead.  _ Dead _ . Clan Lavellan is gone. 

Keeper Istimaethoriel, he thinks, has probably returned to the soil. The best of the hunters too. He thinks of the baby girl born last spring, the first child of the halla keeper Lorelei. Her little eyes darker than the midnight sky, her skin richer than the mud after a storm. She’ll have missed her first birthday. 

Images of a river flash through his head. When he was young, he would catch frogs and chase the fish along the current. His mother would scold him for coming home with wet feet and hair. She'd cry and dote about the dresses and shoes he ruined with mud. Her voice is an echo. It beats hard against his skull. A throbbing itch forms as Ellana remembers her sleeping face. 

He pulls his knees to his chest and clutches them tightly. The letter from his Keeper is still sitting on a stool only an arm’s length away from him. Ellana stares at it until his eyes start to hurt. It ends up in the fire. 

Flames lap at the weathered parchment greedily. As it burns and sparks, he moves to his feet. He crosses the room and pushes the balcony doors apart, shivering as the night air rushes against his skin. 

The moon is high, and blindingly bright in the clear sky. He is reminded of his clan again, of a meadow in which he once spent his nights. Moonlight spilled through the trees and the stars shone against the vibrant green grass. It felt almost like the Fade--unreal and light. 

There’s a sound; it’s painfully loud and close to Ellana’s ears. It sounds almost like the wind howling or waves crashing against rocks. A good moment passes before he realizes the sound is coming from him. 

Tears have finally freed themselves, and they flow seamlessly along his face like the river from his memory. He grips the stone banister, barely keeping himself from collapsing over the edge. Sobs ripping through his chest, he screams and screams and screams. 

“Fen’harel ma halam,” he shrieks. He tries to picture the faces of the bandits he never saw. “ _ Fen’harel ma halam!!!” _

Energy sapped from his body, Ellana falls backwards. He lands against his back, and all the air in his lungs rushes past his lips. It doesn’t matter. He decides he wouldn’t mind if he stopped breathing. 

White clouds rise and dissipate from his lips, as the chill in the air settles. He loses sensation in his fingertips and his nose. The tears cool against his cheeks. 

There’s a  _ click _ from inside his room, and soon he can hear footsteps against the furs laid across the floor. “Ellana?” 

He jolts upright. At this point, he can’t decipher the owner of the voice, but he knows he doesn’t want any of his agents seeing him like this. Choking on his cries, he swipes his fists against his eyes. Snot catches on his forearm as he tries to clean his face. 

Before he can muster any sort of response to the voice, there’s a hand splayed about his shoulder. Ellana stutters under the touch, but doesn’t turn to face whoever has entered his space. 

“Is everything alright?” Ellana can hear the accent now, light and pointed. “I know, I know, it’s late. It’s just, I saw Ruffles knocking on your door earlier, but you didn’t answer. Wanted to make sure you weren’t dead or something.” 

Varric’s voice is almost a coo, aware of the unrest in the air. It’s unbearably gentle, nearly akin to a father or--dare Ellana think to relate the voice to his Keeper. 

“Anyhow, what are you doing out here?” Varric asks, crouching down onto his knees. “It’s freezing. I bet that nose has seen better days.” 

Despite the dwarf’s efforts, Ellana can’t coax a single word from his mouth. His gaze stays fixed on the glistening snow that blankets the mountains, each spec of white suddenly covering every point of his vision. 

“How about we go inside?” Varric suggests, reaching cautiously for one of Ellana’s cold-bitten hands. “A warm fire and a blanket couldn’t hurt.” 

Ellana allows the dwarf to wrap his fingers around his wrist. They both stand up. Varric lifts Ellana to his feet as if he were a baby taking its first steps. True to the metaphor, Ellana stumbles. His legs are rigid, stone-like. Varric is patient, only providing support to keep the elf from toppling to the ground. 

Inside Ellana’s room, the fire has long been extinguished to where embers don’t even burn among the ashes. He must have been outside for hours. No wonder he can’t feel his fingers. Or his nose. Or his ears. 

As Varric moves to retrieve flint to light the fire, Ellana waves his hand and brings a spark to the charred wood. A chuckle escapes the other man as he re-approaches Ellana to bring him closer to the flames. 

“I always forget you can do that,” Varric laughs, setting Ellana’s body down in an armchair. “Don’t know how, considering you literally glow about ninety percent of the time.” 

A blanket falls across Ellana’s shoulders. Ram fur. Scruffy, with a texture that hardly ever agrees with the elf’s skin. As a child, he’d kick and scream when his mother clothed him in ram during the winter--he remembers the hairs catching on his skin like pine needles. It always kept him warm, though. 

Silence washes over the room, the only sound coming from the fire lapping at the bundle of wood. Varric sits down on the floor next to Ellana, folding his legs with his hands in his lap. The dwarf’s face looks weathered all of a sudden, the subtle wrinkles around his eyes more noticeable and the furrow of his brow more distinguished. Ellana finds himself trained on the scar across Varric’s nose. It’s quiet now, no more than a gentle red that flows with the rest of his features. He wonders how it might have glowed upon its conception--like red lyrium or an embrium blossom. 

Looking at the dwarf brings an onset of reminiscence. Varric always has a story on his tongue, whether true or crafted from the man’s mind. Listening to them is almost like being thrown into a storybook, regardless of their validity. They always make Ellana feel young, as if he were still tucked away in an aravel, listening to hahren Gaelin relay the history of Arlathan. 

The two remain in silence, until Varric leans back onto his hands and hums. Ellana peers down at him, only to meet a stone-solid gaze that surprises him. 

“The kid said something to me before I came up here,” Varric mutters, turning back to the fire. “Something about ‘crying to the storm’ and ‘having it cry back’. Then another thing about trees. Can’t quite remember.” 

“I--Varric...”

“I can never understand him, but I think he was talking about you,” he continues. “Are you doing alright?”  

Ellana’s eyes go downcast. He considers remaining silent, but what good that would do, he doesn’t know. The terse treatment he gave Josie only had made him feel worse, thinking of the ambassador’s shy rapping on his door from earlier in the day, the clouds in her eyes as he slumped out of her office.

No reason to hide it, he decides. “My clan was killed. Bandits. Whatever’s left of my people lies in the dirt and the grass, now.” 

“Shit,” Varric hums, nodding absolutely. “I’m sorry, Ellie. That can’t be easy.” 

“It’s okay,” Ellana replies, smiling without humor. “I’m sure my Keeper would want me to take comfort in their passing. They’re with the Creators now.” 

“Still,” Varric prods. “Take your time to mourn. You’re Inquisitor, you have enough to deal with already. Don’t force yourself to move on, it only hurts more that way, trust me.” 

Inquisitor. He took the title only months ago, and yet Ellana can hardly fathom life before it. Before that, he was the Herald of Andraste, chosen through divine intervention, marked with a glowing radiance that bound him to his role. Barely a year it’d been, since he stumbled into the Conclave and woke up to Cassandra’s hardened, sleep-deprived features. He thinks of her striking voice, her gaze seemingly cut from iron and forged to a point. 

His life from before them is a blur, barely a blip in his memory compressed by the threat of Corypheus and the literal weight of the world resting on him.

He wants to mourn. 

But how can he?


End file.
